


The Storm Trooper

by Gentrychild



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Corin-centric, Kuill is one cool guy, M/M, Not that I am not torturing Mando with pure frustration, but that's nothing new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gentrychild/pseuds/Gentrychild
Summary: Set in the The Mandadlorian, his son and the Storm Trooper by LadyIrina. Read it first, because it's amazing and to know who Corin is.The Mandalorian and the child are back on Kuill's planet. This time, Corin is with them.Some quiet moments happened in the desert.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian/Corin
Comments: 39
Kudos: 579





	The Storm Trooper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).



The heat of the desert hit Corin as soon as he walked out of the Razor Crest, the sun glaring at him like the former Storm Trooper had personally offended him. He didn’t show it, used to hide his discomfort, and he walked down the ramp, the child following him as fast as he could.

Hence why Corin turned back and scooped him up because even though the little one needed to stretch his legs, he didn’t like to see him on a soon-to-be-burning piece of metal in the middle of the desert. The Mandalorian soon followed, his steps light, not because he was being stealthy, but because for two days, they had been treating the ship like a tired old lady who had gone through too much.

First, it had been a vicious shot by a bounty hunter. Then, the two imperial fighters hunting them and losing them in his asteroid field had been interesting. Last, but not the least, they had met _something_ in the emptiness of space. Something alive, with tentacles, and a mouth full of teeth, and the only reason why they had managed to escape it was because it had frozen under the influence of a very determined and heroic child.

All that to say that the ship had been… compromised seemed like an understatement. The Mandalorian himself had assured that it had gone through worse, but that hadn’t kept Corin from waking up at every suspicious creak and other noises before running around to fix as much as he could so the merciless and cold space wouldn’t swallow them all.

The person they had come to meet hadn’t waited for them to land before making his blurgg circle around the ship, his non-humanoid face unable to hide the wince of pain at the state of the Razor Crest, before pausing when he saw Corin. He examined him, all of him, and a flash of recognition passed on his face.

Not as if he was recognizing him personally but as if he knew what Corin was.

Corin shifted the weight of the child on one hand so the other would be free if a fight ensued.

But the person the Mandalorian trusted didn’t say anything to Corin. Instead, he looked at the warrior.

“Mandalorian, what have you done to this ship?”

“It’s a long story,” the bounty hunter sighed. “Can you fix it?”

“First, we eat,” the Ugnaught decided, turning away and already advancing towards his house. “I don’t think many people had the occasion to eat with a Mandalorian and a former Storm Trooper…”

Corin didn’t put his hand on his blaster. It would have been premature. But he stood ready, because now that the Empire had been defeated, bloodied Storm Troopers helmets on pikes where a common sight.

And sometimes, their heads were still inside the helmets.

“I also have broth for the child,” the man continued, before looking back when he realized he wasn’t followed.

Corin wasn’t taking a step before the Mandalorian agreed.

The Ugnaught made his mount stop and looked at them.

“I have spoken,” he declared.

That made the Mandalorian sigh and he nodded at Corin before following the Ugnaught. Corin walked after him, his hand still away from his blaster but close enough from the knife on his belt.

* * *

The Ugnaught’s name was Kuill and he wasn’t only a gifted mechanic –which might be an understatement- but he also had been an indentured servant to the Empire. The Empire disapproved slavery, even though they strangely let it happen, so they hired criminals or people in debt in order for them to pay back their debts to society.

It was the first time Corin had ever heard of someone living long enough to become a free man again.

Kuill shared a meal with them, not in the pompous way an officer would invite a honorable soldier at his table, but with the quiet dignity of the people who knew the value of hospitality, and how, in a desert were resources were rare, sharing food was almost sacred.

The child gleefully ate before snooping near Corin’s plate until he realized that his father couldn’t eat in the presence of someone else, and the plate with little food that had been symbolically given had been left undefended. The child was also too young to notice that a straw had been provided. It had been welcomed with a vicious glare that had shortened Corin’s lifespan from a year and made Kuill laugh.

The Mandalorian was a man of few words and the child didn’t talk yet, so Corin was the one who made the most of the conversation with Kuill. They talked mechanics. They talked blurggs. Surprinsingly, at no point did they mention the fact Corin was a Storm Trooper.

It was incredibly awkward.

The temperature had thankfully started to drop as the night arrived and the child had been put to bed when the Mandalorian told them that he would be out to secure the Razor Crest. When Corin asked him from what, he pronounced only one word: _Jawas_.

As soon as he left, Kuill pulled out from nowhere an enormous jar of what could only be alcohol, before throwing a glass at Corin.

Then, things got considerably less awkward.

* * *

As the Mandalorian was wondering if putting incendiary mines around his beloved ship would be unreasonable, he sensed something. Some might have called that a bad feeling. Others, a disturbance in the Force. Mandalorians would have talked about instinct. But at this moment, he knew that something he would regret was going to happen.

 _Incendiary mines AND explosive mines,_ he decided, unaware of where the real threat was.

* * *

It only took two glasses before Kuill and Corin started to talk about the Empire, in the old ritual of people in a place with no cameras or any listening devices who needed to bitch about the organization, the administration, and overzealous officers.

By the third glass, Corin was holding the table because the floor was dangerously unstable. It was strange, since he wasn’t even standing but sitting, but this horrible planet with those awfully high temperatures was just proving what Corin had known all along: this place was out to get him.

“How did you know I was a Storm Trooper?” he asked Kuill at some point. Someone else who was out to get him and who shouldn’t be sharing his wine –or varnish remover- with him. “I am not wearing my old gear.”

“Do you think I need to see an armor?” the Ugnaugh scoffed as he was pouring them more drinks. Maybe he was indeed trying to murder Corin. “I saw it from the way you walk. The way you stand. The way you looked at the world. They mold you into those perfect murder tools, turning people into the same model of killer. It is foolish to think it does not leave visible traces.”

As he talked, Corin saw something in a corner of the house. A ghost of a sort, the beginning of something conjured by his mind, and he consciously gave it more presence, until his white armor was shining under the weak light. His dark eyes weren’t reflecting anything.

CT-113 was simply waiting.

Kuill kept speaking, his voice soft and assured, as he kept talking about the Empire, pronouncing slanders as if there weren’t going to be consequences afterwards. Mocking the Empire, pretending it was scared of individuality, and Corin should have said something, should have made him stop, because he had been correct with him despite Corin being a Storm Trooper and he had to stop Kuill from getting himself killed, but he was too busy watching CT-113, who wasn’t simply standing anymore but watching the house with this specific way a Storm Trooper had to evaluate the situation before bringing destruction.

“No, no… Everything wasn’t bad,” Corin heard himself say, a pitiful attempt to make Kuill stop risking his life by talking too much.

Some part of him knew the Empire had been defeated, that CT-113’s ghost was only a side-effect of too many drinks, but another was terrified because life had taught him about terror. The subtle one, the insidious one, that swept under your skin until you didn’t realize what it was anymore.

“Like what?” Kuill asked, leaning towards him, as if he was waiting for something, the thing he had waited for all evening.

Corin could recognize a trap when he saw one. The wine, the pleasant conversation, pretending to like him… All of that was just to make him admit that so far, his life didn’t have any sense because he had been serving a flawed cause, an obviously evil and corrupted Empire, where everything was awful and bleak.

But Kuill was wrong. There had been good things.

Corin knew that, because otherwise, how could he had survived?

“I… I had friends. Really good friends. “

Corin could still hear the screams when he made the mistake of _remembering_ them. The smell of blood and of something worse as they died from the death from above for most of them. That time where he had tried to carry LN-938 to safety only for his comrade to become a literal deadweight on his shoulders, and how he had understood that he had to drop _it_. It, because that mass of cold flesh wasn’t his friend anymore.

He could hear the silence just after the fight, not full of grief yet, but of shock. Still in survival mode and not sure to want to go back to simply living, because they knew the full depth of their emotion would hit them like a cruiser.

That was for the first battles, of course. Before they had learned to kill their emotions, again and again.

None of this showed on Corin’s face, because the helmet might be gone, but he still had the discipline, taught to him since before he could walk. _Purge away all weaknesses._

_Commit yourself._

Not that he had ever managed to do that. That was even in his file. Made for greatness but a lack of ambition that would never make him an officer.

_“If you’re only good at following orders, what about following this one: show some initiative.”_

He had forgotten that. He had forgotten his father and his uncle calling him to try to rectify his behavior.

The pain got him out of those memories. He hadn’t noticed it but his fingers were clutching at his shoulder, at the armor on it, enough for them to start protesting.

Corin looked at the pauldron, of the beautiful metal gifted to him.

When he looked back at the corner, CT-113’s apparition was gone.

* * *

They kept talking about that. About things that ought not to be repeated in daylight, sober and hiding behind invisible armors.

At no point did Corin realize that the reason why Kuil wasn’t blaming him was because he was recognizing a fellow victim.

* * *

When the Mandalorian came back, the tone of the conversation had shifted and they were laughing their heads off, before promptly stopping when the cause of their hilarity arrived. This last action only knew a limited success, probably because Corin had to put a hand in front of his mouth to shut up in time.

A suspicious glance was cast on the glasses and the almost empty jar on the table.

“How much did you drink?” the Mandalorian whispered with a funny voice.

Funny because if Corin hadn’t known better, he would have thought there was a note of fear in the Mandalorian’s voice.

But that wasn’t important. What was important was that Corin still had the hilarious description of the Mandalorian's first tries at riding a blurgg and how he couldn’t laugh. It would have been rude. One was never rude to someone who had a flamethrower. Everyone knew that.

The Mandalorian picked up the jar, smelled it, and looked at Kuill.

“Is it Gentes liquor?”

“Obviously.”

“It’s a controlled substance for anyone who isn’t an Ungnaught.” He pointed at Corin. “He is high.”

It was absolutely ludicrous. Corin was far from high. He was sitting on the floor, so he was as low as he could get. Unless the Mandalorian wanted him to be lower? Maybe there were cultural differences about what was high and low?

Corin dropped to the floor, looking up at the Mandalorian, trying to see if he was happy now.

Judging from the hand passing on his helmet, he wasn’t.

“Oh,” Kuill said on the tone of someone who was realizing a huge mistake but who was too drunk to really care about it.

The Mandalorian crouched next to Corin, though at a careful distance. But close enough for the beautiful beskar to almost blind him.

“Time to go to bed,” the very shiny warrior said.

Corin put his palms on the ground to remind himself where was up and where was down, and he got up, noticing too late the Mandalorian’s outstretched hand. Corin still grabbed it and intertwined his fingers with his so he wouldn’t accidentally let go.

He couldn’t screw up and let this hand go.

Then, Corin grabbed the child’s floating crib. The already sleeping child could have been put in the backroom, where they would be sleeping tonight, but he didn’t want to leave him out of his sight.

Especially with the shadow of CT-113 over him. He didn’t know if he wanted to protect the child or take him, and he didn’t care. The child was his to protect, at least as long as the Mandalorian didn’t kick him out.

The three of them said hi to Kuilll (Well, not the Mandalorian, who wasn’t saying anything and who was strangely still) and they all left to the little room in the back of the house. Used to stock craps of metal, food, and so on, but it was at the right temperature and there were enough blankets for everyone.

The ghost of CT-113 followed Corin in there, hidden in his shadow. Waiting.

_He can wait as long as he wants. He won’t take anything of mine._

* * *

A soldier was supposed to know his weapons perfectly. He was to hone his body, he could dismantle his blaster and put it back together in ten seconds at most, and he could put his armor on and get it off one-handed, in the dark, while the ship they were sleeping on was at the mercy of some fancy pilot who wanted to try some new moves.

And yet, Corin didn’t free himself from his armor. He tried, he fought valiantly, and in the end, he decided that sleeping in his armor was for the best.

At the other side on the room, in his own blanket nest, the Mandalorian sighed, before getting closer, and suddenly, his hands were on Corin. With assured and quick gestures, he took off Corin’s armor and helped him out of it. At no point did he touch anything other than the metal.

“Are you going to be okay?” the Mandalorian asked like he really cared, so close to him.

A soft smile appeared on Corin’s face.

“Of course.”

He had nothing to complain about. Especially as he had both of them.

The Mandalorian froze, as if something had blinded him and he scurried off so fast he almost became a blur. Corin watched him leave then come back, with a flask in hand and another blanket.

“Drink.” He nodded when Corin obeyed, the fresh water a delight. “And take this. Nights are getting extremely cold out there.”

“Oh, right.”

Corin gratefully took the blanket. Then, just as grateful, he took the Mandalorian’s wrist and yanked him on the thin mattress.

The Mandalorian fell on his hands and knees, which wasn’t useful to Corin. The warrior didn’t have the time to move before Corin grabbed him and pushed him so he would lie on his back. Then, he scooted closer, half laying on him, his head on his shoulder.

None of them were wearing armor, so even if they were wearing clothes, they could feel each other’s warmth. And in Corin’s case, how tensed and still the Mandalorian was, something he should have been wary of, but right now, he didn’t care. He was warm, comfy, and Corin was happy to huddle with him.

After all, he wouldn’t have commented about the cold of the night if he wasn’t cold himself, right?

“What are you doing?” the Mandalorian whispered between his teeth with the tone of someone who was considering grabbing his pulse rifle.

Corin remembered the blanket the Mandalorian had brought and got a little away to grab it before putting it on both of them. The Mandalorian tried to squirm away, but Corin, who was more or less sitting on him, transferred all his weight to his hips to keep him down, and completed the blanket nest.

“It’s the best way not to get cold,” the former Snow Trooper informed him, before pining him to the ground, his face on the Mandalorian’s chest, because he knew what he was doing.

Of course, grabbing one’s wrist wasn’t an approved method of keeping someone’s warm but Corin, as the resident expert on everything that was deliciously cold, decided that it couldn’t hurt.

* * *

Corin woke up because he was in hell. Several galaxies, an infinite member of planets, and a quarter of them had the good sense to decide that the afterlife were bad people went was somewhere hot, because there was nothing worse.

He struggled, trying to get free of the blankets ( _Who has done that and would he accept to stand in front of me and to be stabbed repeatedly?)_ before realizing that someone had wrapped him in them, creating a camisole.

By the time he escaped, he was sweating, was disgruntled, and he had the time to realize that he didn’t remember anything about last night, except many drinks with Kuill.

Corin looked up at the Mandalorian at the other side of the room, not dressed yet, but sitting with his back to the wall, with the specific disposition of someone who didn’t have a wink of sleep this night.

“You were moving in your sleep,” was the only answer he got to his silent and indignant question.

* * *

The heat was weighting on Corin’s head, neck, shoulders, and the sun seemed determined to turn him into a dehydrated husk. And yet, he kept fighting, brave in the face of his certain doom.

Below, Kuill exited the ship and looked up at Corin, who was on the roof and fixing the damage from the meteors. Those were only micro fissures but they would weaken the structure with time if they weren’t taken care of.

“Are you still complaining?” the Ungnaught asked, astounded.

Corin immediately emptied his mind.

“I didn’t say a word!” he protested, wondering if the mechanic was a telepath.

“And yet, I heard you complaining. It’s in the air.”

“There is nothing in the air except UVs,” Corin growled.

Kuill made a gest that commonly meant _Do You Want Some Cheese With That Whine?_ and Corin decided to ignore him before he said something he would regret, like what he thought of his welds.

It was strange how one night of drinking and talking had erased the tension between them. But maybe all the tension had come from Corin from the start. Kuill had been calm and friendly from the beginning.

Musing about it, Corin used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, exposing his stomach.

A metallic clang was immediately heard afterwards, followed by an offended cooing noise.

Both Kuill and Corin looked in the direction of the familiar noise for anyone who knew Mandalorians, only to see Corin’s Mandalorian in the sand, holding the child at arm length, a little as if he had just smacked himself on the doorway, fallen and sacrificed any chance to regain his balance in exchange of keeping his kid safe.

Corin was too busy smiling at what a great dad the Mandalorian was to notice the judgmental look the child was giving to the warrior.

* * *

The Mandalorian had finished patrolling when he came back to Kuill’s house, and started to wander through it.

“Corin is behind the house,” Kuill informed him without looking up from an old sniper riffle that had been in the Razor Crest and whose battery needed to be replaced. “He is giving a bath to the child so he can cool off.”

The Mandalorian thanked him with a nod. The little one could handle high temperatures, but he also tended to play in the sand for too long if the Mandalorian or Corin let him. He immediately walked out of the house to see if everything was alright.

A second later, he ran back inside and slammed the door shot, holding it like a drowning man hold a piece of wood in a merciless sea. He looked at the mechanic, a look of pure betrayal on his face.

Kuill, this traitor, still didn’t look up from the riffle.

“Corin also mentioned he needed to cool off,” he added.

One part of the Mandalorian’s brain tried to explain to him Corin had only been shirtless and wiping off the sweat with a wet towel, while keeping an eye on the child who was making splashes in a basin.

The other insisted that details didn’t matter and how that damned Storm Trooper had been gloriously naked.

“Why would you do that?” he heard himself say.

The Ungnaught looked at him, nothing on this face indicating how cruel he could be. “I noticed the beskar pauldron he is wearing. I also noticed he doesn’t realize what this means.”

The Mandalorian decided not to answer that.

“I have spoken,” Kuill concluded as he went back to tinker with the rifle.

* * *

After the first Jawa had triggered an incendiary mine, Kuill and Corin, accompanied by the child, had set up an intervention to explain to the Mandalorian that mines were overkill for the kind of the threat the scavengers were.

The winning arguments had been the child’s disapproving look and Corin explaining that it wasn’t worth wasting expensive material when there was a cheaper alternative.

Kuill had fixed a sniper rifle that had been taking dust in the Mandalorian’s armory. With both their permission, Corin took it, a little giddy to be allowed to finally hold one after all this time, but he did his best not to show it.

He took position on a dune, a little away from the house, and waited.

The Jawas didn’t take long before taking their chances again. They had probably seen the Mandalorian get rid of the mines. The first one approached, a crow bar in hand.

He jumped one meter into the air when Corin’s first shot removed it from his hand without ever touching him directly.

The second cursed at the sky, shaking his fist, when his vehicle almost caught on fire because a blast had nearly touched the motor. It wasn’t an accident that it hadn’t touched it directly. Then, the Jawa put his fist down when another blast landed exactly between his feet.

There was a third. A fourth. At some point, they pretended to leave and came back from another direction. They also looked for where Corin was hiding.

Corin never made a lethal shot. He never even touched them.

He just showed them, again and again, how easy it would have been to do so. He intimately knew how scary it was to have something you couldn’t do anything against shooting at you, something toying with you. That was the kind of unsettling feeling logic and greed couldn’t tame for long.

But in the Jawas’ defense, their greed allowed them to last longer that Corin would have.

The Mandalorian joined him at some point. At first, as a spotter. Then, he just watched Corin, lying on the sand next to him. He must not have been used to be so near a riffle without being the one handling it because he tensed every time Corin took a shot.

Corin could feel the tension because of the Mandalorian’s hand on his back, to steady him, his fingertips pressing more into his flesh every time he was making an impressive shot.

So Corin did many of those.

He had forgotten he loved that. Going to this quiet place of stability and certitude. Taking account of the wind and of the curve of the planet they were on. Judging if the shots were possible, making them, managing his time in order not to be overwhelmed.

Being really good at something.

At least, that was what he thought until the Mandalorian finally talked, for the first time since he had arrived.

“It’s not bad,” he nodded, with a strangely hesitant voice.

As if he was trying to be encouraging with someone average.

Corin’s smile immediately disappeared. He couldn’t help the sudden frown either, especially as he was trying to hide the twinge of hurt.

Next to him, the Mandalorian, a hand still on his back, got very still.

Corin didn’t sigh because it was a good lesson. He should be a professional and not act like a child at his first shooting lesson. Especially as he obviously didn’t measure up to the Mandalorian standards.

_It was stupid to compare yourself to someone who belongs to a clan of ultimate warriors._

The Mandalorian’s hand slowly left his back. Corin pretended not to notice it.

“Who taught you how to shoot?”

Corin didn’t answer right away, shielding himself against any jokes about the storm trooper’s marksmanship.

“My uncle first. Then, a tutor.”

A Jawa started to approach the Razor Crest, taking a nonchalant air.

“A tutor,” the Mandalorian repeated.

The Jawa took two steps, then looked around, surprised that Corin hadn’t made himself known yet.

“I wasn’t a Storm Trooper yet,” Corin explained. “But since I had a good aim, my uncle and my father offered me additional lessons as long as I didn’t slack off with my training and if my grades were good enough. It was my reward for good behavior.”

Having some time alone where he was free to do something he liked had felt like pure freedom when he had been a child.

“It must have been useful,” the Mandalorian commented. “Snipers are always appreciated.”

The Jawa took more steps, already calling his friends.

"Not really. The HUD, among other things, can aim for us so, unless you’re a Death Trooper, no one cares about how good you are at shooting. When I touched a rifle, it meant that bad luck was striking and that air support had just been destroyed.”

The Mandalorian made the most offended noise Corin had ever heard.

Corin barely paid attention as the Jawa, down below, was close enough to the Razor Crest to touch it.

With a little noise of victory that Corin was too far away to hear but could easily imagined, the Jawa put his hand on it in an act of pure defiance.

Several things happened at once.

The other Jawas started to run to the ship. The Mandalorian’s head whipped in Corin’s direction, wondering what the hell he was waiting for. And Corin pulled the trigger.

A dozen of times.

By the time the Mandalorian had finished turning his head towards him, a perfect half circle of blaster impacts were darkening the sand in front of the foolish Jawa, who had raised his hand before the cloud of sand had stopped raining down around him.

His partners and him all fled for their lives.

And next to Corin, the Mandalorian laughed, the sound beautiful and making all of those hours Corin had spent training, for an activity that was considered worthless since a HUD could do the same, worth it.

* * *

After that, it would have made sense for the Mandalorian to go back to Kuill’s house and to sleep on a real floor, but when Corin informed him he planned to keep watch on anyone threatening the Razor Crest, he decided to stay.

They took turns watching the activity around the ship and the house, one with the rifle, the other resting on the Mandalorian’s cape. Soon, they were joined by the child, who had somehow materialized near them without neither Corin or the Mandalorian noticing. The kid was extremely grumpy and obviously blaming them for abandoning him, and his forgiveness was bought with many kisses and hugs.

In the end, the Jawas never came back and the three of them spent a pleasant night under the stars.

* * *

It would have taken two weeks for any mechanic to fix the ship. It took five days to Kuill, and only because he slowed down on the last couple of days. Corin had the sneaking suspicion that he liked having the Mandalorian and the child as guests.

A payment was forced into Kuill’s hand, not because of the housing and feeding, but only what was due for his job on the Razor Crest. And a commission related to how fast the job had been completed, that was coincidentally close to the budget of the food served to them.

The child was extracted from the inside of a wall, the little womp rat managing to sneak into any place as long as it was dangerous and hard to reach. Kuill was thanked.

Corin said goodbye while the Mandalorian was already on his ship.

“Happy to leave the desert?” he asked as Corin followed him in.

“I am not hard to please. I am happy wherever the both of you are.”

Strangely, that made the Mandalorian pause.

“This is… good.”

Corin couldn’t swear it because of the helmet but he felt like the he was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to LadyIrina.
> 
> As for anyone else who might read this fic, I hope you like it. ^^


End file.
